


Silk & Satin

by wizardsandthrones



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Erotica, F/M, Post-Hogwarts, Sensuality, Sex, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 03:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30082983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wizardsandthrones/pseuds/wizardsandthrones
Summary: In which Neville secretly writes erotica and Pansy learns the vulnerability of sex.
Relationships: Neville Longbottom/Pansy Parkinson
Kudos: 3





	Silk & Satin

It is over a year into their relationship when Pansy finally admits that something is wrong. Maybe not _wrong,_ but certainly not _right._

She loves Neville. More than anything, more than anyone before. He is the first man to value her for more than just beauty or sex. He loves the real Pansy, he loves the core of who she is as a person―as a person, but not a woman. 

Neville doesn’t love sex. Or at least, not as much as Pansy, and not in the same way. Which is fine, Pansy tells herself. And _he_ seems fine. Completely fine with how they are, by which she means their sex life, of course, which is _there_ , mind you, just...there. He is fine with it, so she is fine with it. She loves him regardless. And yet, something is not right. They do not understand each other, not as sexual beings, at least.

She blames her own desires, her own perverse fantasies. She likes sex too much. But that’s not it. The problem is that Neville does not see her as a sexual being, as a woman with needs. He respects her too much to see her otherwise. Pansy loves this about her boyfriend, this untouchable respect they hold for each other. 

But during sex…

She must hold herself back. Secretly, the desires linger, the burning heat, flames licking right below the skin. But she loves him enough to hold back. They kiss and they make love but she must hold back, she must contain her instinct to scratch her nails down his back, to bite his shoulder, to ask him to truly fuck her, to take her, to let go of her personhood, and eclipse herself in the sex. 

Pansy doesn’t want to fuck this up. This is the first real relationships she has been able to keep down. After Hogwarts, she was hooking up with Blaise, a brief period that went as quickly as it came. They had such wild, hot, passionate sex, but it was not love, in the end, and it was cold and hostile. They gladly parted ways when Pansy felt her heart yearning for something more secure, something safe and healing, while Blaise detested commitment. 

Then Neville was there, unassumingly handsome, bashful, and attentive, letting her talk all day long, nodding and smiling and saying all the right things even when they made her laugh. He was so gentle where Blaise was rough, so giving where Blaise just took. It was everything Pansy knew she needed. 

And she still loves him. 

She loves him so much she is willing to set all this aside, her deeper impulses during sex. 

And yet, maybe she would bring it up, if she knew Neville could talk about it. But Neville never talks about sex. Even the mere mention of it makes him blush and close in on himself. It makes her miserable. Pansy, who is so comfortable with her sexuality! In her own skin, in her body, and in sex. She doesn’t understand him. 

Sometimes it seems he’s not even interested in her, or not interested in sex. Lately, Pansy has noticed, he seems more interested in writing his _letters,_ as he calls them, than sharing anything intimate with her.

It started a few months ago in the dead of winter, when Pansy was first beginning to admit they had a problem. One night, as she was getting ready for bed, Neville remained hunched over his writing desk, illuminated by a single candle, scribbling in his messy hand, ink splattering on the wood. 

“Are you coming to bed?” she asked. 

He glanced at her with a smile, but it was forced. He returned to writing even as he spoke. “Yes, later. Get the bed warm for me.”

“What are you writing?” 

He looked up at her, as if surprised she had asked, and then looked away, shrugging. 

“Oh, just some letters.”

For some reason, Pansy never asked who he was sending them to. In fact, she rarely asked about the letters at all, and when she did, Neville answered vaguely. She was scared to overstep his boundaries, to ask too much of him. She kept silent about the letters, but they nagged at her for weeks. 

Even now, he is very evasive, almost secretive, about his letters. Most nights he still stays up late, crouched over a piece of parchment, writing and writing and writing. 

Each day her curiosity about these letters grows until she can barely think of anything else, until they are an obsession, a fantasy in their own way. She dreams of ripping open the drawer he locks the letters in and reading them greedily, as if by reading them she might find the answer to their problem. 

She must read them. 

Finally an opportunity presents itself. Neville must travel to Hogwarts for an interview. He applied in January for the open position of the Herbology Professor. He will be gone all day and will only return very late in the night. 

She kisses him goodbye on the cheek. He wraps an arm around her waist. One of his fingers lightly brushes her hip underneath her shirt. Pansy shivers. Neville does not notice. He never notices, only looking at her as a person, as a mind, but not feeling her as another body, the ebbs and flows of the current in her blood. 

“Wish me luck,” he says. Then he Apparates. 

Pansy beelines it to his desk. The drawer is locked, but she expected this. She worries a simple Alohomora will not work, or else that Neville has placed a light curse on it, as she always did with her belongings at school. But then she notices a small silver key on top of the drawer which she failed to see through the pounding of her heart. While she feels half guilty for snooping, it is overpowered by her burning curiosity. She grabs the key. 

The drawer opens easily. 

Inside is crammed with papers. She takes them all out and returns to their bedroom, spreading them out around her so as to see them all at once. The writing is so messy she has trouble reading them at first. 

_My love,_

Pansy’s heart stops. Her throat constricts. Of all the things she thought she would find, proof of an illicit affair was not one of them. Her eyes burn as she continues to read, each word hitting her like a punch to the gut, a sickening nausea. 

_I have failed you. I know it, and I wish I could stop it. You wait for me to find you in the darkness, but I walk blindly, stumbling, like a child. I do not know you, and so you do not know me. But I love you, Pansy Parkinson, and one day I hope to find you as I know you deserve._

She abruptly lowers the paper down, inhaling sharply. A belated tear falls down her cheek at the reality she was ready to accept, as a punishment of her own appetites, but it is all a mistake, a wonderful, lovely mistake. With the back of her hand she hastily wipes the tear away and keeps reading, unsure now what she is going to find. 

_I cannot speak of it, or of you, when you ask it of me. You do not tell me with words, but I can see it in your eyes, like a burning flame. But the moment I try to give it to you, I fail. I always fail. So I will try to write it out here. Perhaps I will show you this one day, or else I will memorize them by heart and speak them to you. One day…_

The parchment ends. She sees at the bottom a small number _1,_ and hastily searches the rest of the letters until she finds the one numbered _2._ It is longer than the first, with the words crammed small and tight on the page. 

_One day I will come to you, I will undress you carefully, more carefully than I do now. Each article of clothing is a treasure to me, for it has kissed your skin all day, it has been more near to you than I can ever be. Then I will clothe you again. Yes, I will dress you, so that your skin barely touches the cool air. I will tie a cloth over your eyes, drape silk over your breasts, and cover your most delicate skin with satin. My hands will roam your skin, will touch the curve of your breasts over the silk, stroke the satin until it smells like you._

_Yes, I like you dressed. I like you half-undone more so than anything. Others might prefer you naked, but they do not understand. Sex is more than nakedness. It is more than passion or love. It is the most secret, sacred knowledge. It is the very pulse of life._

_I will breathe you in through the satin, my tongue will linger on the silk, circling the hardness of your nipples through the fabric. The heat of my mouth will seep through the silk and onto your breasts. Then I will take off the silk and the satin, all smelling like you, stained with your sweat and perfume. I will use them to bound your wrists, tie them to the bed posts, those lovely white wooden posts which you chose for us._

_But it is not about power. I do not wish to dominate you. Intimacy does not arise from control, but from willing surrender. You will surrender. I will be powerless. You will spread your legs not for me, not for yourself, but for us, the knowledge of something greater. You will not know where I am. You will only hear my breathing._

_I can see you clearly in my mind. Lying there, glistening, reddened breasts, squirming, impatient. I will wait. I will wait with unrivaled patience for you to go completely still. To give up and open your legs wide like gates opening on the water. Your legs will open and a flower will bloom right before my eyes. Did you know that you are like a flower? No, you_ are _a flower._

_You bloom with pink and white folds, a flower opening to the sun, water beading down each petal. My very soul stirs at the thought, at the image of your flower opening up to me, wet and wanting, waiting and quivering, like petals stuttering in a slight breeze._

_My hand will slide down your inner thigh and sink right into that flower, into the warm heat, the soft velvet of your body. The smell rises up in a wave. I must lower myself, I must kneel before you, I must sink my mouth, my tongue, into those folds, between those petals arranged like nature herself, angling towards me, the sun, the rain, pouring down. I will stroke and sink into you, I will drink your sweet nectar, I will lose myself, my thoughts, in this giver of life._

_It is always more than just sex for me. It is always more than nakedness, than fucking, than even making love. Those are all just acts, just words, bound up by useless sentiments, perhaps even lost sentiments that no one living remembers anymore. No, sex is an entrance to another world. I find another cosmos at the ends of my fingertips. I find every truth in your skin, in your taste. Passion is nothing compared to what I want, which is nothing more than total surrender, the complete bloom, a fountain of immortality. I must forget our names, I must meet you as a living force of nature, we must unite in sheer sensuality which turns the very Earth towards the Sun, sinking his rays into her soil._

Pansy swallows, carefully setting the parchment down. She never knew these thoughts to be circling in Neville’s mind, never even glimpsed a hint of it. Sheer sensuality? Silk and satin? No, this cannot be Neville writing this.

But she knows it is. 

Pansy can scarcely breathe. She wants to cry. She wants Neville to come home and fuck her until the words on this page are burned into her skin. She had no idea she could feel like this, so vulnerable and torn open and yet still whole and complete, so bound to her body and yet so intertwined with her soul, the one ending where the other begins. 

She scans the other pages strewn across the bed carelessly, half in a daze. Sentences and phrases jump out at her, scalding in their intimacy. 

_Fucking you is like dying, dying like a star, hot and bright._

_I want to paint your body in blood red wine and then lick it all off of you until you stain my tongue for eternity._

_Give me a sign with your eyes and I will bury myself in your earth._

_Let me drown in you, let me burn up in your fires, until there is nothing left of me._

_Your mouth is a gate into heaven, so rain your heavenly arrows upon me until your very name is a prayer, your sex a curse._

_Somedays I almost tell you to wait on the bed for me, half-naked, all day long, knowing that when I come home I will fuck your wet, wanting, waiting sex until you come for me, until you come again and again and again, until your legs are spent and all you can do is tense against me at the pivotal moment, clenched around me, a short inhale, a short gasp, wishing for the end and yet begging for more, begging for release..._

Later that night, Neville is surprised to see her completely naked on the bed except for a thin silk dress which has slipped over her shoulder, baring one breast. His letters surround her, the writing ink black against the white sheets.

“You read them,” he says dumbly, staring at her. 

“All of them,” Pansy whispers. She presses her hand against her sex until her eyes flutter shut at the jolt of pleasure, a taste of what is to come. Then she opens them, laboring for breath. “I didn’t know.”

Neville can only stare, captivated. His eyes linger on her body, but they pass over sparingly, like there is too much to see but too little time. He’s looked at her like this before, but she had always thought it was an almost blank stare, a shock at her naked body.

Now she knows the thoughts running through his mind, those dark, sensual thoughts, and she shivers. He does not seem to notice this, but Pansy catches a twitch in his right hand, imperceptible, which only someone fixed on every detail of his body could catch. She had never noticed it before, and she realizes that it has been _her,_ not Neville, that has been blind. 

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says, still staring at her, immobile. But Pansy can see his pulse leap at the base of his throat. 

“Why don’t you show me?”

He drops his briefcase with a loud thud, then climbs on the bed, fully clothed. He hovers over her body, then traces a finger down her chest, around the uncovered breast, cupping it firmly, deliberately, before bringing his mouth down on her other breast, right on the silk dress which is thin and light, draped over her curves. The warmth of his tongue seeps past the silk, and the hot texture of it slides across her nipple so that her skin sparks like a match scraping against stone. 

She arches against his mouth, sighing. Then his hand slides down, over her dress, across her abdomen, her stomach dropping with it, down the side of her hip, and slipping deftly under the hem of her dress, his fingers sinking inside of her with all the self-assurance of someone picking a flower from the earth. 

Pansy shudders. He looks at her in wonder, his mouth slightly parted as he moves his fingers inside of her, as if searching for something over and over again. Her legs clench around him, her head falling back, but just as she tenses, her legs stiffening, Neville pulls his hand away. He steps off the bed and undresses. She looks at him under half-lidded eyes, her chest rising and falling, out of breath. 

When he stands there, naked, erect, and serene, he pauses, looking her over. Her mouth goes dry. 

“I’ve been waiting all day for you,” she whispers. His eyes rise to meet hers, astonished, then darkening, steady. He returns to her on the bed, his palm passing over her side, cupping her from behind, his fingers grasping the soft skin, spreading her apart. 

Her legs fall open, ready, her pulse at the very center of her, her sex unfolding in the cold air, the depths of her widening, wanting, waiting. He enters her swiftly, filling her up so that she burns, alight with a new knowledge, the acceptance of a sensuality that is beyond body and mind, beyond themselves, so that they become one with the earth and the ocean and the sun, waves lapping on shores, glittering under a fading light. 

Pansy realizes now what was missing, the answers she found in his letters. It is not passion that she needed, that she desired, but the ultimate surrender, the intensity of intimacy, the silk and satin of sensuality. 

She needed to be vulnerable and give in, so that she could kindle the fire. Not to him, not to herself, but to the moment, to the very fire which she wished to start. She needed to let her own self drown in their intimacy. She needed to surrender. 

And she does surrender, over and over and over again.


End file.
